


All The Things That Made You Feel Sane

by meteornight



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Ambition: Nemesis (Fallen London), Amnesia, Gen, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Manipulation, Psychological Horror, The Iron Republic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28454853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meteornight/pseuds/meteornight
Summary: That was quite the experience. What you can remember. Didn't you write some of it down?When a quest for vengeance goes awry, a zee captain is left without crew, quarry, or memory of what they had seen. But even in a colony of Hell, there is some kindness to be found.
Relationships: Player (Fallen London)/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 5





	All The Things That Made You Feel Sane

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Ship in a Bottle" by fin. Based on [Iron Republic Day CENSORED](https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Idris%20Aperture/20663389) and references themes of memory found in [Considering Memories of Light](https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Idris%20Aperture/20400455).

The Iron Republic was home to devils, anarchists, and those who reveled in chaos and sin. It was there that a Citizen found themself, drenched in blood-slick sweat. The heat of the earth was unbearable, and the assault of the sky pained them. But now they were indoors, where the lights were dim and the figures vague. There they stood by sheer force of will, close to dying but refusing to fall. As they gasped for breath, tears streaked paths through the ash upon their face. They had no memory of how it happened, only a fleeting recollection of days flying by like hours. Every moment was fear and agony, every aspect of normalcy was torn away. Piece by piece, they had fallen apart. Shattered glass falling like rain, water whispering behind their back, a name seared upon their memory that is not their own… They couldn't even recall their own face. Over a hundred days their body had warped and changed, leaving them with no way of knowing if it ever put to rights.

It was too much. They cried out the words of madmen and prisoners alike: “I need a mirror!”

Their hands reached out in a desperate plea, only to be caught by a grinning deviless. Her grip was like a vise.

“Oh dear, oh dear," she cooed, “Oh, how you have suffered in your time here. Don't you worry.” She gestured towards a desk where paper and ink sat at the ready. “We can put that all to rights.”

They stared blankly at the papers. They couldn't read the words. They could read many things, things that should not be read by human eyes. Why could they not read?

“Alright love, go on and sign.”

With shuddering hands, they scrawled their name. Their hand knew it, even if their mind did not: _Idris Aperture_.

Red ink dried upon the vellum with a peculiar finality. A blinding pain blossomed in their skull and the world went as black as a censor's pen.

Idris Aperture sat facing a devil and a deviless. The pair were dressed in uniform, their tall, trimmed collars and gold epaulettes glistening in the dismal light of the lava flows outside. The pair towered over them, eyeing them appraisingly as they sat clutching their aching head.

“My my," said the deviless, “You seem to have had a less than lovely time. Don't you worry. We'll have you fixed up in no time. Sign here and we'll make it all better.”

“How can I trust you?” Idris asked. Their mind was clouded, but they knew enough to question the kindness of devils.

The deviless trailed her fingertips lightly over the weeping wounds across their cheek. “Do you have a choice?”

They knew they did not. Any person in their right of mind could tell that.

The devil cleared his throat. “There will, of course, be a small fee.”

Idris bit back a curse. “What do you want from me?”

“The records you kept of your time here. That is the price stated in the contract.”

“I kept no records. I was preoccupied with other business. Scathewick. You know that full well.”

“We know you kept a journal," said the devil roughly. “Where did you hide it?”

“Why does it matter to you?”

“The law of the day is censorship. You feel it, don’t you?” The deviless phrased it as a question, but it was clear she knew the answer. “All that is written and all that is seen must be reviewed prior to any possible publication. So before we release you to your ship, the journal.”

“Very well.” The citizen hiked up their skirt, hissing in pain as it brushed a gash on their leg. From within the lining of the stiff hem, they retrieved a slim volume.

The devil took it, paged through it, and blotted out a day with night-black ink.

Idris Aperture faced two devils—

_“Here's the paperwork. It'll only take a moment.”_

—dressed in smart, high collars—

_“Sign here.”_

—and gleaming gold epaulettes.

One examined their papers, reading every page of their journal, a thick volume of myriad horrors. The other, with a sing-song voice, spoke sweet platitudes and Mithridacy. With every secret unveiled, they shrugged off suspicion. With every rumor dismissed, they lost scandal. And with every memory censored into submission, they forgot their nightmares and their pain.

Idris Aperture faced two devils and emerged unscathed. Their legs felt unsteady as they walked to the shore. The port was not busy, but amidst the sights and sounds of zailors and the echo of engines on the zee, they found themself lost.

“Captain!” a voice called.

They turned towards the sound.

“Captain Aperture!” The Tough Tracklayer nearly toppled them over, wrapping them in his arms. “I thought I’d never see you again!”

“Why would you think that? I haven’t been gone long.”

“A hundred days,” he told them. “It’s been just short of a hundred days.”

“Oh.” They struggled to right themself. “That’s odd. I was certain it had only been a week or two.” They rubbed their temples only to find them bandaged and bloodied.

“Captain, can you walk?”

Idris sighed. “If you’re asking that, you know the answer.”

The Tough Tracklayer carried his captain up to the deck of the clipper ship and down to their cabin. He spoke to them as they went, if only to keep Idris conscious. He told them half-familiar tales of horror and escapades in the Iron Republic. The crew had dispersed some time ago, but the ship was in a fair enough state to sail. He had seen to that himself. Only when his captain was safely in bed did he begin to speak of the future.

“We need to set course back to London, as quickly as possible,” he told them. “Wait here and I'll gather the crew. I'll—”

Idris silenced him with a shake of their head. “To Hunter's Keep, my loyal lad. I fear we shan't see London for a long, long time.”

By the time he found the words to protest, the captain had succumbed to sleep, deep and restless.

* * *

Idris could tell that Arabella was awake. She woke with the Sun (the Sun, the Sun), which shone through the curtains of their bedroom. Still, she lay with her back turned to her lover, lost in thought.

“What’s wrong?” they asked. They could always sense when their wife was in a melancholy mood. The air would go so still around her, like the calm before a storm.

“I’ve been thinking since you left,” she whispered. “Why did you go? Why did you send me away?”

Idris closed their eyes to the memory of red petals and red blood. That was not now. This moment too was nothing but a vision, yet they found themself giving into it, sinking softly into its sweet deception. For where else could they be forgiven but a dream?

“I did it because I love you. I love you no matter how much you hate me, I love you still. This is the only thing that has kept me alive,” they confessed. “I can’t lose you too. The Neath has already taken too much from us.”

“It took you from me,” she told them plainly. “You are not the man I married. Look at yourself.”

They turned to the mirror on the wall. It was bathed in a color that is a cruel mockery of violet: Irrigo, the color of forgetting. That virulent light poured out from the windows, from the mouth of cave, washing away every memory that made them.

They woke, their head swimming. With little sense of who or where they were, they fumbled first for the two things they wished to remember the most, what they swore not to forget since their first eyeful of irrigo in the Cave of the Nadir. If they remembered these things, they would remember themself.

What did Arabella look like? She had eyes like pale blue silk, soft and strong. She had hair the color of dried blood. It was hard to recall her face these days, but that was what portraits and photographs were for.

What was their daughter's name? It was something Scathewick would know and rue the day he heard it. Iris. Iris, like the embroidery on a stolen handkerchief. Iris like the fine patterned shirtwaist they bought just for the poetry. That waist was bloodied now. Perhaps they could have it dyed darker, like mourning clothes. Almost all their clothes were mourning clothes.

A creak of floorboards started Idris from their idle thoughts. There was movement in their cabin. Within a breath, there was a knife in their hand.

They called out into the moonish light. “Who's there?”

“It's me,” replied the Tough Tracklayer. “It's Bryan.”

“What's wrong?” Idris asked. “Does the crew need help?”

“No, we’re fine. Well, at least those of us who decided to join up again. I came here to check on you.” The young man crept closer to their bedside, moving slowly as not to frighten them. His footsteps were quiet for someone as burly as he, and his voice gentle for someone so scarred. “Are you alright?”

Idris sat up in bed, slowly and deliberately. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”

He ignored them. “You talk in your sleep. Well, that and cry.”

“Oh, I know. It's a wretched habit, really,” they laughed.

Bryan smiled at that. “Seems you're almost back to your usual self, treating everything like a joke.”

“The Iron Republic can't leave a dent on me,” they lied easily. “But you… I worry about you. I was so alone out there. What could have happened to you?”

“Someone had to look after the ship, especially after most mutinied. But I knew they'd come 'round. It was our only way out, and they knew it.”

Idris sighed. “I almost feel bad for stealing her, especially since I don't even have Scathewick. What was the point of it all?”

“Like you said, it'll be a long time 'till we see London. But until then we have this fine vessel to get us where we need to be in good time. Listen, Citizen. You're a good man. You try your best. You look after us. You forgave us. And you're doing this not only for yourself, but for her. You've got a good heart, despite all the petty crime. But what's the law to an anarchist, eh? No laws, no Masters…”

“No sky to rain vengeance. Just man and goodwill. Only mankind's goodwill…” They looked towards the window, where an anarchist’s paradise met Hell itself. “Do you believe?” they asked.

“My brother does. I see where he's coming from, but… We have different visions.”

“I understand,” they said. They had known revolution and its fires, for better or for worse. “Come now, give me a hand. We have work to do.”

Bryan helped his captain to their feet and they set off arm in arm as they had so often done. Through the violent revelry of Hallowmas, through rough dockside justice, through voyages of curiosity and vengeance, they fought side by side. So they set off towards the Broad Unterzee, unfazed by the troubled waters ahead of them.


End file.
